Chapter 1

Kilo-Two Combat Town, Area 25, Camp Pendleton, California; Early Fall 2003

Sergeant Jay yanked Corporal Carr and his newest troop at the same time to the side of the MOUT simulator building. “Jeezzuss mother-fucking Christ! Holy fucking dog shit and Mary Mother of God! Your grandmothers could have made a better entry!” Sgt Jay continued his lecture as he pointed to a tall, young lance corporal, “ ... and why the fuck is this idiot in the lead? Put this shit-for-brains in the middle of your team.”

Cpl Carr’s other two fire team members exited the MOUT live-fire structure and stood next to their team leader to listen to their squad leader’s lecture. Sgt Jay gestured to the two Marines that had just joined the one-sided conversation upon their exit from the MOUT building, “ ... these other two stupid butt-fuckers, why the fuck did you let the stack get fucked up? You people need to maintain the stack until right after entry. Just get your dumb asses over to the hummer and get a wonderful MRE. Try not to fuck that up.”

Cpl Carr and his three charges, feeling the shame that a Marine endures when he knows that he has failed their fire team or squad leader, walked dejectedly to get chow. Just as the youngest member of his second fire team turned to go, Sgt Jay grabbed a loop on L/Cpl O’Brien’s body armor and load-carrying gear to turn him around. “Look fucker, watch your team leader closely in these MOUT drills. Get the entry right. Listen and immediately react to Corporal Carr’s orders during and right after entry, because there will be too much noise and all the other shit that tends to happen about a second or two after entry. Dispersal after entry is when you will probably get hit.”

Sgt Jay paused then continued in a lower and more calm intonation, “But I also wanted to tell you that your beat-down was the best. Both times, you got that fucking hatch open quickly and cleanly. Also, your snap-shooting is the best in squad. Shit, its better than mine.”

Sgt Jay had the young Marine’s almost worshipful attention as he continued, “and you had the highest rifle qual in the company last month. Because your field-craft for the last several weeks didn’t suck, I’m going see if Staff Sergeant Kimberly wants to send you to the DM course. It’s a fun two weeks that you won’t have me yelling at you.”

The young Marine, surprised at the complements, gave a half-grin, “Aye, sergeant. Sounds good. Do I get to stay with the squad?”

Sgt Jay thought for a second, “don’t see why not. I’m sure that Staff Sergeant Kimberly will be more than happy to keep you in the platoon. But you will be at the beck and call of the Captain and the LT. You’ll find that many units do not move without a DM or sniper as over-watch, and that would be a common duty for you at the company and platoon level. So go get some chow, shithead.”

School of Infantry, Designated Marksman Course, Camp Pendleton

Sgt Lamb and his boss, SSgt Everly, were not watching the targets anymore. They were watching the Marines on the firing line for form, firing cadence, and how the shooter and the spotter communicated to interpret conditions and ranges and adjust fire. The original class of 26 was down to 15, and the class body count was about to further decrement. The first cuts were mostly for marksmanship and academics and improper screening by their parent units, but some were for poor field-craft and attitude. During the last two strings of fire, Everly and Lamb held several short conversations. Their DM class would have four or five less bodies before the end of the day. Sgt Lamb and SSgt Everly ducked behind the RSO stand while their troops started to clean their M14s as their last assigned string of the day was finished.

“Staff Sergeant, the gunny is going be pissed again. This will be the third class in a row with about half or more being dropped.”

“Not my problem, Lamb. The fucking battalions are not screening for shit. We’ve wasted several days each class for the last six months weeding out their mistakes. What’s the gunny gonna do? Fire us? Please, send me back to my platoon. But fuck it. Do not worry about it. So who do you want and do not want?

“Top of the list would be O’Brien. He’s our only thousand-meter shooter in this class. Better than average field craft, good attitude, lots of smarts. His only negative is lack of experience. He’s an 18-year old Lance. His first deployment is coming up. The kid shouldn’t stand a company over-watch without an experienced spotter.”

“Fair enough. Is he still number one?

“Nobody within 100 points, Staff Sergeant.”

“Number two?”

“Harrison. And I would send him out alone. But he is not always the brightest bulb on the block.”

“Number three?”

“Gomez. Not an innate shooter, but fully qualified. And he is not dumb as a rock.”

“Ok, will submit their names to the gunny for the class awards. And for the shit-can?”

“Here’s my list.”

A brief smile crossed Everly’s face as he noted that Lamb’s cut list was the same as his. “Looks like we agree. Time for me to face the gunny...”

Sgt Lamb held up his hand to put a hold on the senior Marine, “And staff sergeant, ask the gunny about my TAD orders. I’m coming up on six months. Isn’t that max for TAD? I need to get back to Third Marines for the next work-up.”

“Six months is generally the limit, Lamb. But all of the battalions are howling for more DM classes.”

“Well just fuck me, staff sergeant. People in hell want ice water.”

SSgt Everly considered Sgt Lamb to be the best DM instructor that he had for the last two years he had been at SOI. He knew that TAD orders for duty as an SOI instructor was purgatory for most members of a scout/sniper platoon. SSgt Everly had another year to go on his SOI instructor duty tour and hoped to work with the Sgt Lamb upon his return to the FMF.

Camp Pendleton, 62 Area; Late Fall 2003

Various units of 2d Battalion, Fifth Marines (2/5) had spent the week on the Edson rifle ranges. The battalion’s pre-deployment work-up schedule required all of the line companies to re-qual their troops.

Cpl Carr, O’Brien’s fire-team leader and O’Brien’s preferred spotter, did not know what to say or do about O’Brien’s M14 rifle. The first day at the range with the company did not produce the expected results; subsequent days at the range did not result in improvement. Sgt Jay, their squad leader, had tersely told them to ‘handle it’, with no further guidance. Carr’s only directions were for O’Brien to talk to the company armorer.

O’Brien took his M14 to the line at the armory check-in portal. Looking at the long line of grunts grab-assing while waiting for the armorer to reject the infantry man’s offering of a ‘clean’ weapon, O’Brien decided to return to the adjacent cleaning benches and work on his M14. O’Brien layed out his carefully chosen examples of 7.62 NATO brass. The brass cases exhibited various anomolies that O’Brien recognized as serious problems with that particular lot of ammo, or of dimensional tolerance issues in the rifle’s chamber. He hoped it was not the latter because his issue DM rifle looked to be almost new. He wanted to keep this rifle for his duration at the company. He replaced the collection of brass cases to his pocket.

After the weapons check-in line dwindled, O’Brien queued up to wait for the company armorer. As the last person in line, O’Brien figured he would be allotted the time to plead his case to the armorer without causing a riot among his fellow Marines.

“ ... but corporal, the head-space for the ammo is fucked or the shoulder in the rifle’s chamber has problems. I dunno, you’re the armorer.”

“What the fuck, Marine? The ammo comes directly from Quantico, and the rifle just came back from the depot. Ya want me to tuck you into the rack tonight with a bed-time story?” The armorer paused to re-think the young lance corporal’s claims. “Tell ya what, lets look at a few things. Take it over to the bench and field strip it. I’ll get some tools.”

The armorer exited his cage and stomped outside to the glaring lights that illuminated the weapons cleaning benches, then immediately grabbed the receiver/barrel assembly and removed the gas piston. “Don’t see anything here. Let’s look as some other stuff. Hand me the bolt.” Pulling out a watchmaker’s loupe, Cpl Barkley looked at the face of the bolt and pushed in the extractor. Not seeing any unusual marks, he disassembled the rifle bolt. Pulling some dial calipers out, the armorer made several measurements on the bolt and its components and transcribed them into his little green notebook. “Where’s that brass, Marine? Any unfired rounds from the same batch? ... I’m not going to report any saved rounds...”

O’Brien pulled out five pieces of 7.62mm Lake City brass out of his pocket and two unfired rounds as the company gunny walked up. “What’s up Barkley? Its almost 2000. Gotta call from battalion saying you’re holding up their parade.”

“Geez gunny. The company didn’t get here until after 1730. And half of the 249s were fucked so your people had to work on that. And when do I get an assistant?”

“Probably when the devil’s balls turn blue from a snowstorm in hell. So what’s up with this rifle?”

“Dunno, gunny. My really big fear was a chamber problem, but looks ok.” Gesturing to O’Brien, “Let’s look at this brass.” The armorer looked at the brass using the loupe. Cpl Barkley did not like what he saw - bright rings at the base, small cracks at the mouth, a deep ejector mark, and powder marks along the length of the brass. His suspicions were confirmed when he miked the unfired rounds. After about ten minutes and a multitude of measurements using his calipers, the armorer was relieved that the rifle was probably not a problem.

“Well, gunny ... I’m not one hundred per cent certain, but it looks like S-4 or S-2 has some paper work to do. The ammo has a head-space problem. We need to ask Quantico for an investigation. Looks like they’re shipping bad ammo. Should S-2 or S-4 do this?”

“Send me a write-up for this shit and I’ll send messages to the chiefs of the two and four shops. Does this affect all of our DM’s?”

“Only O’Brien, here. Probably because the geniuses at Quantico will want to see his rifle. The other DMs will just be on hold until we can find another batch of ammo. But I am sorta worried why no one else saw this shit on the range today.”

O’Brien thought for a few seconds then remembered who was on the range. “Uh, corporal. I think I was the only M14 shooter on the range today.”

The company gunny reeled around to face O’Brien, “Why’s that? Someone fuck up the training schedule?”

“Uh, no gunny. DM stuff wasn’t scheduled. Sergeant Jay and Staff Sergeant Kimberly want me to train at least two in the platoon to be spotters.”

“Well, damn ... Barkley, wrap this up and secure this shit. We’ll work on this tomorrow after I talk to the first sergeant.”

“Aye, gunny. See you tomorrow.” Cpl Barkley waited for the company gunny to leave the area. Looking at the brass one more time and finding nothing new, the company armorer resigned himself to his original conclusion. “O’Brien, assemble your rifle and turn it in dry. Do you have any other brass samples?”

“No, corporal. The other brass got loaded onto the humvee trailer.”

“And a heads up for you, Marine. No good-deed doer goes un-fucked. You did good, but they will probably try to give you the big green weenie anyway.”

“Yeah I know, just like the gunny says, ‘Life sucks, then you die’, or some shit like that.”

North of Red Beach, Camp Pendleton; January 2004

Sgt Jay was not able to survey his troops in the last minutes of twilight. “Anyone not bring a wet suit this time? I didn’t bring any extra shit tonight.”

“I have one, sarge. But it doesn’t fit. Too fucking tight.”

“Come here, numb-nuts.” The young lance corporal approached his squad leader. “Turn around.” Sgt Jay put his fingers through the back of the sleeves and the neck openings of the shorty wet suit. “Should be ok. Its just new.” Addressing the whole squad, “Ok everybody, sit ... close your eyes and listen to my voice...”

For O’Brien, this was about the best part of surfing with the squad. Other than the occasional jogger, the beach was deserted. The ocean scents and the minimal shadows of a void and dark beach, and the Pacific’s gently repeating sequences of waves, and the occasional clatter of a sea gull’s squawk, were all gracefully gathered to provide a placid environs. O’Brien focused on Sgt Jay as his voice led the squad into a special place full of confidence and calmness. O’Brien could not imagine surfing without the squad’s typical prelude to entering the waves. After less than 30 minutes, Sgt Jay slowly talked them back out of their special places within their minds.

When he had all of their eyes, Sgt Jay gently intoned, “Let’s do a few.” As the squad filed towards the Pacific Ocean, O’Brien stopped to note the seagull silohoted by the gibbous moon as it sailed down the beach.

O’Brien and Carr watched Sgt Jay accelerate to take the first reasonable wave. About half of the squad followed him in. O’Brien watched Cpl Carr as he made little water geysers with his hands while waiting outside the surf zone. “What you think the interval is, Opie?”

“Dunno. Lookin like twelve or thirteen. But every third or maybe fourth is the humper.”

“So next one is the humper?”

O’Brien nodded to his fire-team leader, barely discernible in the moonlight.

“Then lets go, dude.” As O’Brien and Carr accelerated into the surf zone, Carr’s other two fire team members followed. McKenzie decided to wait for another, less crowded wave.

Sgt Jay watched Carr and O’Brien lead in the second batch. He did not have to look too hard to know that O’Brien had chosen a decent set, which was typical. O’Brien tilted into the wave to add drag from his hand and arm and space himself from Carr. Carr quickly looked back and saw the entourage in trail. O’Brien, feeling cramped and getting paranoid about collisions in the dark, executed a quick kickout to exit the wave and immediately headed back out through the surf zone. Carr followed, but was well behind as O’Brien powered back through and under the surf. The remaining marines took the wave all the way onto the beach as their squad leader and the 2d team leader walked back into the Pacific to catch another.

As the seven Marines sat on the beach watching their squad mates surf, a small group of sailors and Marines walking down the beach joined the squad to watch the others surf. “Damn. How do they do that in the dark?”

“You can see a lot more once you get on the water - mostly because it reflects the moon. A lot of it is feel.”

“You people all know each other?”

“Yeah, we’re all in the same squad.” Sgt Jay was slicing across a decent wave when a member of the squad pointed to him, “and that’s our squad leader. He’s the one that taught us to surf.”

“No shit?! ... so fucking cool. How often you guys do this?”

“Depends on the training schedule. This will be our last for a while. We’re deploying in less than 10 days.”

“No shit? Sandbox or float? UDP?”

“Sandbox. Didn’t think anybody on the west coast was doing floats.”

“We’re all MEF G-3. Gonna be supporting you fuckers over there. Good luck, people.” The wandering band of sailors and Marines continued south along the beach into the night, in search of other activities of interest.

Sgt Jay rode his wave onto the beach. Walking up to his Marines and setting his board over a pack, he got his squad into motion, “Don’t just sit there circle-jerking each other, people. Get the shit set up. Jay’s Marines scrambled back into the sand to retrieve two large hibachis and an ice chest. Within a few minutes, as all Marines are skilled pyromaniacs, two fires were going with dancing flames. Another marine tossed a bag of coals on the two fires while another Marine distributed beer to the various squad members.

Jay looked at his watch. “Helen should be here by now. Someone go get the rest of the shit.” The last statement bounced two Marines out of their fire-watching reverie and onto their feet to find and meet Sgt Jay’s CJ-8 that was being driven by Helen Jay down to the bluff via a canyon trail. As the jeep’s headlights winked out, the corporal greeted Helen. “Hey ya, Helen. How you doing? Two of us enough?”

“Hello, Slash. Yes, you two are ok. How are you boys doing? Everybody ready?”

“As usual, Carr and Opie and Mac are still out there. We got the fire and coals burning. And Sergeant Jay is trying to run everything to within a fraction of a second precision. But we love him anyway.”

Helen Jay laughed at her husband’s troops. She surmised that this, his third squad in less than three years, was probably his last squad, then it is on to the insanity of the ‘B’ billets. She had heard the horror stories from other Marine wives about leaving the FMF to do the shit jobs mandated for mid-career Marines. She watched the young Marines unload the jeep, then they grabbed the bags and chairs she was carrying to add to their transport pile, she continued onto the beach. Smiling at them, and thinking about her husband’s evening comments at home during the last three months, she believed these Marines to be his best squad.

Carr and O’Brien and Mac were the last three remaining squad members on the water. Floating outside of the surf zone, they watched the slow roll of the Pacific in the silver moonlight. “It’s changing, corporal. Now coming from the southwest. And period is decreasing.”

“Yeah. Probably that storm west of Baja. Can you believe that shit? Fucking tropical depression about to form into a hurricane in the fucking winter. Too bad we won’t be able to ride anything interesting from it. I’m guessing the good shit will form up in a few days, but we’ll be packed up and almost on our way...”

Mac, who had been quiet for a while, asked, “Corporal Carr, how fucked up is Fallujah?”

“As Sergeant Jay would say ‘dream on all you want, its always gonna suck’. The Army’s been there a while and recently handed it over to the lead parts of Fifth Marines. So they’ve been in the city for a while. I’m gonna guess that between the lead elements of Fifth Marines and General Dunford now running shit, that they’re gonna start to get a handle on that mess. So it’ll be the same fuck story, just a smaller scale...” Cpl Carr paused the subject not just because it was pointless navel gazing, but a more near and pressing subject rose to his conscious thoughts, “ ... so did Quantico ever say anything about the ammo?”

O’Brien gently paddled to rotate his surf board to face Carr, “Yeah. They don’t want us to shoot it. And to send the shit back.”

“Fucking glorious. Fucking rocket scientists. I could’ve told you that. And the battalion has already expended the shit from the other known-good ammo batch. The DMs and SS platoon supposed to throw rocks when we get in-country?”

“S-4 says it’ll be there when we arrive.”

“Yeah, right. Maybe we need to invest in slingshots and bows and arrows.”

“I’ve done both, Corporal Carr. They can be used...”

Mac laughed while he watched the dark Pacific roll waves in two directions. He truly believed that O’Brien could kill with a slingshot.

Carr shook his head, “I should’ve known. Fucking redneck. So what’s the interval, Opie?”

“Thirteen to fifteen. Mostly southwest.”

“Our last wave, Opie. Let’s catch this fucker. You coming, McKenzie?”

O’Brien and Carr turned towards the surf zone, with Mac following in loose trail. Several sea gulls flew into the moonlight and screeched at the three paddling Marines. Once up on their boards, their ride was pure. They were synchronous in taking the wave, but had maintained good separation. Their slices and positions were intense yet serene and smooth.

Sgt Jay stopped working on the grilled chow to watch the dark outlines of his people ride the wave as it perfectly broke and peeled down the line. At first, the Marines were moving in and out of the shoulder. Then they were moving up and down the wave face until they both cut back to stay in the pocket.

O’Brien and Carr and MacKenzie quietly sailed onto the beach, grabbed their boards, and walked to the fires to join their squad. The three of them paused to look into each other’s eyes, but said nothing. Opie, as always, somehow got placed in the middle of the squad gaggle around the two fires, but said nothing for the remainder of the night. He listened, watched, and drank heavily of the squad’s family bond. He decided he was ready to go to war. Mac said little through the evening and watched the various exchanges. Later in the night, Mac noticed a change in Opie’s posture, expression, and body language.

Iraq, Early Spring 2004

Mac was picking up three cases of MREs for the squad when he over-heard SSgt Kimberly, the platoon sergeant, briefing Sgt Jay and the other squad leaders. “ ... and the LT said the boss still does not have any intel. Women and children were supposedly evacuated, so the operational limits are basically any male with a weapon. The LT was ambiguous, so I’ll say this, and until I hear it from the zeros or I see it in black and white, the rules of engagement are shoot them before they shoot you. And I mean fuckin shoot them until they’re fucking dead...”

Mac quickly carried the MRE cases back to 3d squad’s tent. Seeing Slash, Carr, and Opie together, Mac made a straight line for the group. “You’re not gonna believe this shit, man. Staff Sergeant says we’re walking into a free-for-all shootin gallery. Opie was right - they have no idea who remains in the city and what to do.”

Slash smiled at his young Lance Corporal’s big eyes. He knew this would be Mac’s first combat mission. It was time for all of his boys to earn their promo’s and show their stuff. “Mac, be cool. Do what we tell you and react just like we did for the last four months of pre-deployment work-up. This ain’t rocket science - even Opie here gets it. O’Brien gave the two Corporals a faux middle finger and walked off with Mac.

Sgt Jay Returned to his squad’s tent. In his mind he was making personnel lists, equipment lists, radio call procedures and call signs, sector assignments for each fire team, primary routes, alternate routes, and a myriad of other flotsam and jetsam that a platoon and squad must set up for and plan for before a walk outside the wire. Sgt Jay, standing in a clear area of the tent, paused for effect. “Every swinging dick, front and center now ... Revile at 0330, equipment check 0345, mount up 0400. The skipper wants 2d platoon moving down the road before 0415 - mostly because the army will not be able to cover our ingress - they’re up to their assholes in alligators elsewhere, and the battalion said our company will only have a single 81 designated for our AO. So we need to set up immediately after we cross the checkpoint at the river while its still dark. The C.O. wants the rest of the company inserted before light. We’ll transport in light hummers to the east edge of the AO. We’re the cargo. Weapons Company are drivers and ma-deuce operators and will return to battalion as soon as we jump over the line. There will be two LAVs at the LOD for ingress cover until we have entered the city. Order across the LoD is 1st platoon to the South, 3d platoon to the North, then us to the West after the company forms up.”

Pulling a map out and laying it on a mound of munitions and MREs and water bottles, “There is a two by three click area that battalion wants the company to look at. What we find, what we do, and how the locals react, determines what the rest of the battalion does. We’re the lab rats.”

“The company will be over-lapped and will be essentially on-line heading west, perhaps up to one click long. Returning sweeps will be done in echelon or whatever the city structure in our area of interest allows. The length of our on-line advance is based on our ability to maintain visual contact, and whether we risk being flanked or someone coming up behind the rear. All movement is by bounding over-watch - at all levels - by platoon, by squad and by fire teams.”

“Slash, take two 203s from first and third, and get another ‘203 from battalion for all of your team, four less M16 mags each, but at least 15 HEs each, but no willy-peter. Give the extra mags to the first team. All squads are doing this, and 3d platoon is, but 1st platoon is also going heavy with 249s because they will be in a less dense area. We’re guessing that concentrating M203 fire may be our only defense from jihadists shooting at us from built-up areas, so were keeping you somewhat together. All 40mm fire is controlled by Slash.

“Opie, get the M14, leave your 16. Carr, you’re his spotter and his adult supervision, and take my binos when we pass the LoD. Every time the platoon stops, climb on top of something and have your team provide coverage from whatever you and Opie are on. During each platoon traversal, maintain visual with myself. If you lose my eyes, look for Staff Sergeant Kimberly or the LT.

By the way, the first sergeant will be walking with the north half of the line, and the boss and the gunny will be walking a little to the rear with the south half. So don’t be rude and shoot the first shirt or the gunny if they come up behind you...” There were smiles all around, but this was getting ‘too real’ for the squad’s first outside-the-wire experience of the deployment.

“Following is up to the team leaders. At least two grenades each. At least four MREs, I would prefer that you take five or six. And extra camel-backs and canteens. No re-supply for this vacation. The company is by its lonesome.”

“Our last problem. Comm is not good - they didn’t program enough radios. The LT has a single prick 117 for the whole fuckin platoon. Staff sergeant and the LT bought, out of their own pockets, eight hand-helds. They are not secure, but fuck it. What are they gonna do to us? Send us to Iraq?”

The squad laughed, but the tension was still high. For most of the Platoon, this was their first serious in-country experience, and it was a company-sized movement. Nobody wanted to fuck up. Sgt Jay continued his squad brief, “I want Cpl Carr to have a hand-held - mostly for platoon-level DM fire direction. Each squad leader, the staff sergeant, and the LT will have a handheld. Unknown at this time but the first sergeant and the CO may get hand-helds, they haven’t decided.” Handing out a stack of 3x5 cards, “Here are the equipment lists and call signs and freqs and codes. Pay attention to the list - note that ammo assignments are different for each team.”

The squad leader paused, “Now listen people, the LT has been receiving mixed signals, and S-2 hasn’t been able to tell us much. We know little of the composition, equipment, or tactics that the insurgents may use. We are not even certain how many remain in the city, because the Army brigade and Fifth Marines have not kept the city sealed up so there have been a lot of insurgents both in and out; but we do know the Army brigade has been here for several months has been careful not to stir shit up. I was told that policy is no longer in effect. If someone has a rifle that is not slinged behind him, if he puts a finger on the weapon, or is aggressive in any way, shoot the fucker.”

“Final instructions. If I go down, Slash takes the squad.” Turning and pointing to his 1st team leader, “and Manders and Carr can play rock/scissors/paper when Slash bites it.” More laughter.

The sergeant got quieter and stopped using his ‘command’ voice. “Ok people, everybody’s head is on a swivel. No smokes on patrol, no unnecessary conversation. Remember what I’ve taught you about awareness. Sound, sight, smell, taste. Use it all. Never turn a corner without total awareness. Keep yourself centered, Its ok to get excited, but keep it centered. Let’s sit down. Close your eyes ... that means you, Jansen. Listen to my voice. Let’s begin...”

Sgt Jay’s voice wrapped around his squad. As Jay’s voice enveloped them, they were all able to enter that special place that Sgt Jay had taught them to create. A place that pushed out panic, and provided a composed and untroubled sense of confidence. About 25 minutes later, Sgt Jay looked at his watch as he waited for his squad to ‘return’. “Let’s get some chow. It’s going to be fucking MREs for a few days.” They grabbed their rifles and walked together to the field mess.

The LT and the platoon sergeant were talking with the company gunny when Sgt Jay’s troops walked past, his squad quietly talking among themselves. Looking at Sgt Jay’s squad, the company gunny remarked to the platoon commander, “ya know, sir, you probably have the tightest squad in the company.” The platoon commander nodded. The platoon sgt replied, “Yea, guns, they are just as crazy as everyone else, but I’ve never seen them really fuck up. Damn good kids. Look, I know the first shirt doesn’t approve of Jay’s training techniques and gets pissed that he hangs out with them. But they will follow that man into anything. He’s the best leader I’ve got.”

The company gunny faced the Lieutenant, “Did you tell him, sir?” The Lieutenant shook his head in a negative reply. “The boss said second platoon is running company ingress cover and over-watch because of their third squad. So we all know who the best is. So fuck the first sergeant - and I never said that...” Both the Lt and the Staff Sergeant laughed at the gunny’s irreverence towards his first shirt. “Now would someone tell me why your DM is called ‘Opie’?”